


Between The Shadow And The Soul

by alyyks



Category: Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Exceedingly proper courting, F/M, Naboo Culture and Customs (Star Wars), Past Padmé Amidala/Anakin Skywalker, Star Wars Rare Pairs Exchange, Star Wars Rare Pairs Exchange 2020, Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-12
Updated: 2020-12-12
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:20:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27548959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alyyks/pseuds/alyyks
Summary: By any and all measures, they are being exceedingly proper.A brief stolen moment in the office of Senator Padmé Amidala.
Relationships: Padmé Amidala/CC-1010 | Fox
Comments: 17
Kudos: 78
Collections: Star Wars Rare Pairs 2020





	Between The Shadow And The Soul

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Primarybufferpanel (ArwenLune)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArwenLune/gifts).



> Read and encouraged by antonomasia09 ;)

By any and all measures, they are being exceedingly proper.

Padmé Amidala, Senator for Naboo and the Chommel Sector, is wrapping up work as the lights of Coruscant come on one one by one, chasing the sun and eclipsing the stars.

Commander Fox, of the Coruscant Guard, is there to escort her to her speeder after she is done. The last traces of gold light set the red of his armor aflame.

It might be too much, something of a waste of his time, to have the Commander himself here. There are reasons, excuses: Senator Amidala is a former protégé and former monarch of the current Chancellor, she is a political target, she has many enemies; Commander Fox likes to keep an eye inside the Senate, he has taken the opportunity during the wait to catch up on his paperwork, he prefers not to get stuck into a routine and small assignments such as this keep him sharp.

They are alone, Padmé’s aides and sisters-in-arms having left half an hour before.

There is nothing happening that would raise an eyebrow in any circumstances, not when Orn Free Taa gropes women in plain view and doesn't get a second look. Commander Fox is in full armor and no skin shows, his helmet is on. Padmé herself is covered head to toe on this day, the weather set to bright and cool above the Senate in the morning, the temperatures not rising much through the day. Her long sleeves cover the back of her hands, a deep grey for mourning and anger. The flowers embroidered from her neck to the layered hems of her dresses are the pearl white liliums left on the graves of the innocent dead on Naboo, and woven through in deep red fly the  firebirds of the old legends, that were a symbol of freedom for no chain could held them, blessing for the trapped and harbinger of doom for the trapper both .

She fights for the freedom of millions and mourns the millions of their brothers killed by the actions and powergrabs of the Chancellor, and she wears her fight in his face. She doubts the man notices, and if he does, that he cares. But the people who matter do.

Fox does.

Padmé can see how so many—too many—of the Senators, aides and employees of the Senate dome ignore the clones in Coruscant Guard Red, as if they were nothing more than furniture, as if they were deaf and blind to the conversations and going-ons happening in front of them.

The Coruscant Guards are the best-placed people to hear the gossip in each and every room. And in the Senate, in those troubled times, gossip means matters of life and death. The Coruscant Guards know the vast majority of what happens on the surface levels of Coruscant, and much of the happenings below. Who they choose to share the information that doesn’t make it to the official reports with is but a select few.

Padmé powers down her station and locks up her public datapads.

Fox steps to her side, back straight, visor pointed right ahead of him.

Padmé curls her hand on the arm of her chair, in anticipation. She could argue that she needs no escort from her offices to her vehicle, could argue that she can take care of herself… but they are alone, and Fox isn’t here because he thinks her weak, unlike some of the people she dated in the past had acted like, Anakin chief among them—all the contrary.

It is duty in all the lines of his armor, a duty forced on him and a duty he chose and keeps choosing, and she can above all respect that.

Duty and respect and friendship and love and her breath catches for an instant at the gift she has been offered. Her cheeks feel like they should color, her heart fluttering under her ribs.

“My Lady,” Fox says, and offers his hand. Padmé has no need of it to raise from her chair, but it is the intent, the courting inherent to the gesture, that makes her breath catch a second time.

She uncurls her hand, and softly, daintily, rests the tip of her fingers on Fox’s hand. Like a leaf falling onto a pond, whisper soft and speaking louder than a scream for it announces the turning of the season, said her lessons in etiquette a lifetime ago. Fox curls his hand around hers, gloved thumb resting on the smooth polished nails of her index and middle finger. She is wearing deep red, firebird red, Coruscant Guard Red.

The tenday prior, her nails had been 212th Gold.

The right people notice.

Padmé rises, letting her hand rest like the shadow of a bird in Fox’s hand.

He does not release her hand. No, they are alone, and for all their masks, figurative and real, they are as honest as two people of their worlds can be, together. He does not release her hand, and she does not take it back.

Fox, slowly, oh so slowly, like a great quercus tree shaking its branches to face the sun, moves, raising her hand and lowering his head at the same time.

Her fingers barely touch the lower part of his helmet, where his mouth would be were he bare-faced, and her heart, trapped bird, takes flight.


End file.
